After rolling out of bed in the morning I always put on my workout clothes, this tells me that I will be running today. I believe me, but I’m gullible. Sitting in my editing cave in January, moving fingers over a keyboard is apparently not the type of workout those clothes were designed for. Eventually a pair of warm socks, an odd scarf and one of hubby’s cozy hunting shirts completes the wayward ensemble. My husband told me I looked like a writer today. I’ll leave out the preceding adjectives and take that as a compliment thank you very much.
Then he bent to kiss me goodbye and pulled back. “What’s all over your face?”
“It’s January. There’s an ice-storm outside. You haven’t left this cave for a week.”
“It’s a preemptive strike against premature aging. Your shirt doesn’t match those pants. You look like an engineer.”
Instead of a kiss I got the stink eye. Despite that I still plan to protect him from wolves when we hike The Grand Canyon, mostly because according to Wikipedia there aren’t any. This edit slogs on, and I’m truthfully not complaining, I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing as I sit here hunched over the keyboard with a wicked stitch between my shoulder blades. Repairing fragmented sentences, rearranging commas until I completely forget all grammar rules and have to go look everything up again. Deleting scenes, adding scenes, reading and rereading, flossing my teeth a whole lot – I’m kind of OCD about flossing. Chasing family members down, cornering/tackling them (that counts as running, right?) and reading them the scenes with emphasis on the new comma placement. Yep. Life is good.